


Stopgap

by SQ (proteinscollide)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-03-29
Updated: 2003-03-29
Packaged: 2017-10-16 03:02:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/167730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/proteinscollide/pseuds/SQ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>stopgap (n) : something contrived to meet an urgent need.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stopgap

Her father told her she was smart, was making the right moves, when she came home for Christmas break in her sith year. Narcissa remembered staring down at the floor with the right amount of deference as taught, confused until he showed her the neat tidy scratch of Old Malfoy, repeating Lucius' prattle. She stood there, cold in the light wrap Mother had commissioned from the old weaver in the nearest village the previous autumn, and smoothed down the front of her lavendar skirt over and over as he stood there and praised the boyfriend she had not realised she had until that moment. And thus it was settled.

When she looked in the mirror now, as she did most mornings, Narcissa thought she had still the same beauty, an extra line here and there, but mostly it seemed to her that time had preserved her at that moment, a reminder of her duty, her life.

****

Narcissa had never been very academic. She went to class but there she would daydream of new gowns and marrying for love and beautiful children, and thus missed important sections of her education. She had thought it sweet at first, Lucius’ attempts to catch her attention, chasing her with ardent carelessness. Early on, there was a transfiguration lesson where he turned her struggling hedgehog into a bouquet of roses, the thorns too prominent. She was not smart enough to know how to change it back, or transfer the energy into an approximation of what others had on their desks. In the back corner where she and the other Slytherins worked, she sat there with the cloying smell of full bloom red roses all around for the whole hour, until the Professor came around and shook his head, made another black mark against her name for the lesson. Lucius smiled charmingly as the class was dismissed, breezing by as she gingerly moved the flowers to lie on top of her pile of books, awkward to carry.

She never thought to throw them into the bin. They withered in a vase by her bedside, until one day she returned after another day of classes she barely paid attention in, and found the house elves had tidied the room to perfection. They had left a window open, and the wind blowing through the room was fresh and crisp, so it was as if she had never owned the dying blooms at all. It lulled her into a sense of impermanence, the wax and wane of teenage romance, and she forgot that first gift until Lucius' next showy attempt, another perfect smile with eyes serious from effort.

The engagement was announced less than a year after graduation. In the cavernous hall at Malfoy Manor, her parents clutched tightly at the crystal glasses of champagne in their hands and not at each other. All the guests milled around with an air of money and boredom that went hand in hand, clapping lightly with gloved hands as Old Malfoy raised his voice to address the crowd there in a tired voice, Lucius smiling emptily beside his father. The engagement was long, but only because the arrangements for the lavish ceremony took some time to organise. Narcissa shook her head or nodded as she was required, reading the imperceptible signals from Lucius' mother with care. The only request she made was that her mother be allowed to choose her wedding gown with her. They pored over catalogues of satin and the most delicate lace from quiet corners of the globe, and in the end her choice was greeted with some consternation, for she chose champagne-coloured cloth. She laughed at the idea of her chastity being in question. In truth, Lucius had never moved to touch her intimately, rarely stepped within her personal space. She was used to light touches on her wrist and her waist, signals for her to follow him; but even in private he held her at a distance, bestowing the briefest of kisses, dry and quick.

In the moments before the ceremony, her mother had pinned a spray of babies' breath too tight to the bodice of her dress, and whispered fiercely that the pain would be bearable with tears in her eyes. Narcissa heard every word of the speech inside her mind as she walked slowly down the aisle, eyes darting everywhere behind a heavy veil - left, right, always back to where Lucius stood, proud and beautiful, at the altar. As she moved to stand by his side, she drew back her veil; in the quiet of the church she could hear the congregation gasp at their unearthly colouring; pale against pale next to pale, shades of gold diffused of bright.

****

He never meant to let her into his life, to tell her where he went and what he did, and it did not need to be said that it was not her place to ask. Many mornings she woke to the rough bounce of the mattress as Lucius sat on the edge and pulled on his boots, calling loudly for his horse to be saddled. He never noticed her, never a backwards glance as he whistled his way out the door, leaving her lying there shivering in the morning cold, pale and beautiful on the finest sheets. She would carry on with the facade of everyday then. Lucius had instructed her to command as the lady of the house, with authority; despite her efforts all it achieved was to bring a haughty hysteria to her girlish voice. One maid, new to service, found herself outside the gates within the day when she slipped and grimaced the first time Narcissa addressed her with orders.

Every night the table would be set as it always was, for two; Narcissa hated entering the dining room to see the gaping distance of white linen, equally spaced candles, and ever more that she would eat alone night after night, seated at one end watching the empty stretch in front of her. The servants glided noiselessly to and from the room, quietly around the spacious grounds, and Narcissa lived the same routines in the same rooms for hours that turned into days that turned into years. Rarely catching another's gaze, rarely involved in a conversation with others. Early in her marriage, bored and lonely, she had wandered into the library, sombre with its velvet drapes and row after row of leather bound gold gilted books. In the dim light she tried to read of Malfoy family history, fingers tracing syllables painstakingly. She stopped one night when she noticed great grandaunt Calvera sneering at her from the large portrait frame just left of the mantlepiece, looked up from a tedious sentence of some long dead merchant to find the severe dame laughing derisively into her handkerchief. Narcissa was certain the old cow would have had less education, led no better a life than hers, but she was unnerved all the same. The next morning, she slipped it into the orders for the day, asked that the library be left untouched while Master Lucius was not at home. The servant nodded as Narcissa went back to contemplating another needlework project, but she noticed the lights of that room still aglow that night.

Two nights after that incident, Lucius returned. His boots were hurriedly given to a footman to clean, though Narcissa could see at a glance that they were hardly dirty. Strange, that, for the moors for hunting were cold and misty in this season, wet with dew and the frequent wash of rain, churning mud from beneath the verdant grass. She followed him silently from the door to their bedroom, watching him strip out of his breeches, his jacket, with efficient haste, leaving them in a pile on centuries old carpet. He moved into the bathroom and shut the door in her face, having not said one word to her though they had not seen each other in more than week. She sat down on the bed, nightgown in folds around her waist, and wondered if she could fall asleep then, barely hours before dawn. Lucius solved her dilemma by slipping under the covers when he had showered, turning on his side away from her and straight into sleep. She stared at his back. When his breath became deep, shoulders rising gently and steadily, she reached out and traced the red welt from his shoulder to below the level of the blanket, still fresh and bleeding a little under the skin. She dropped a light kiss on the reddest point, surely where the lash had stung him first, and drifted into slumber, pressed against the warmth of her husband. Her last thought was of confusion, wondering how he could have sustained such an injury while out hunting.

****

Lucius was away the night her waters broke. She lay confined in her room, bedridden since the eight month of her pregnancy, on the advice of the Mediwizard Lucius brought to her when she doubled over in pain one morning while attending to the household accounts. During the examination, Narcissa felt shrivelled in misery and embarrassment, skirts lifted to her hips, Lucius grimly staring out onto the empty lawns. She cried, sobbing into the lapels of his jacket, when the medic sat them down and solemnly stated that due to previously untreated injuries, there was a risk of losing the baby and no chance of a second pregnancy ever. She didn't dare to look at Lucius during this pronouncement, listened to his heartbeat strong and regular instead. When he returned from paying the Mediwizard and showing him to the door, Narcissa finally had to courage to meet his eyes. She was stunned by the disgust in his look, then realised that it was because he saw her now as flawed. Narcissa had to fight to keep the surge of anger within her from sliding across her face, knew that it was no good to disagree with her judgement of her, remembered the circumstances of the conception of the baby anyway. Forced to stay in bed, she came to understand that this was her punishment, an exile. Using the dreary time to dream the dreams of old, she kept one hand on her distended belly so she could cup the trace of every kick, for each movement inside her proved her yet useful to Lucius.

It was lucky for Narcissa that as she realised the time had come, her screams woke the household, galvanising them to action. The midwife was on hand in moments; had been for a week of free board and room, waiting for the precious Malfoy heir to arrive. Narcissa almost fainted as the pain grew, a building of pressure on her lower insides due to the badly healed injuries, still crying inside her mind for the baby she was afraid of losing, and not for all the right reasons. She smelled the heavy herbs in the air, the sweet scented stick placed between her teeth. There were hands, too many hands on her sweating swollen body, but relief from the gentle pair that drew a wet cloth across her forehead. Lucius’ piercing eyes met hers as she came to again, intense and focussed on her pushing body, and in a wailed gasp Draco was born. Lucius had decided on the name four months ago, returning one morning dishevelled and wild-eyed, muttering of commands and a purebred dynasty of power. He was wrestled into bed by two of the burlier footmen, Narcissa pressed up against one wall, tense until he began to snore. He mentioned nothing of it the next morning, save that he had extracted a promise from her, that the child would be called Draco; at that point, terrified of a repeat of last time, Narcissa had gladly promised anything to stay unharmed.

The wet nurse cooed gently as she lifted the baby and washed him in the copper tub in a corner of the room, swaddling him in warm cloths afterwards. She moved towards the bed then, and Narcissa struggled but was determined to sit up, hands reaching out for her baby boy. But Lucius intercepted and took the bundle from the woman’s arms instead, stood in the middle of the room gazing thoughtfully at his first and only child. Moments passed, and Narcissa felt a dizzy spell coming on, wanted so much to hold her baby before she fell into sleep. She called out, “Lucius, please, let me hold him now,” her voice weak, darkness creeping into the edges of her vision. Lucius ignored her, still cradling the baby.

“Lucius, please,” and she was begging but she could care less now. “Lucius, my baby - ”

He looked up at her then. “Your baby?” he said, calmly questioning. Narcissa froze, realising what game Lucius meant to play then, what he still thought of her - damaged goods.

“Our baby, Lucius,” she amended, “Ours and we created perfection together. Oh please Lucius, let me see him!” Exhaustion freed her from restraint, desperation seeping in to her voice. Lucius regarded her with a pause, then slowly walked over to her side.

“Yes. Yes, we have.” And he finally placed the baby in her arms. She drank in the sight of her newborn, everything about the baby. They were right. He was perfect. Narcissa felt love for another then, the first time in so many years that it was wondrously heavy in her chest. She leant back against the bedhead and smiled wanly at her husband, and was suprised to see him return the gesture, reaching out to take the baby from her weary arms.

****

Lucius had always wanted perfection, to be in a position where it was attainable in all things. Narcissa had been flattered by it as a teenager, because Lucius had wanted her. She supposed that after they were married, Voldemort offered better prospects of achieving perfection to her husband, such that Lucius would suffer being under another’s cruel power, those scars she traced with trembling fingers as daylight filtered through the light curtains on some morns. She knew it was true the night Lucius rode the best filly in their stable to death, spurs still embedded in its exhausted flesh when they found it a half mile from the house the next day. He seemed not to have noticed for he had continued on foot, stumbling home. Narcissa heard his approach from the sitting room, and met him at the door alone, single lantern lighted. One of the maids cut a ligament in her foot when she stepped on the glass remains in the hallway the next morning, as she went about her duties in the near dark.

Narcissa remembered the night in dangerous flashes, a juxtaposition of one terrified coupling with the next, Lucius with eye unfocussed and all pupil, speech slurred. She cried but could not refuse him and he paid no attention to anything but his desire as he rode her body. In her ears he whispered filthy endearments, mixed with broken speeches about his master’s plan for a new wizarding world, one bred from perfection to give perfection, purity distilled. Narcissa blacked out on the floor of the bedroom, one hand curled tight around the solid wood of the bedframe. She woke up to the maid’s horrified squeal of pain below, a headache deep within her head and a crippling pain in her womb. She threw up again and again in the bathroom, running cold water over her wrists, until she fell to the cool tiles with the effort. That night, Lucius greeted her pale face at dinner with a solicitous inquiry to the state of her general health. She smiled tightly and refused the glass of red wine offered to her. In the months after, she imagined the baby already blossoming in her belly at that moment, the only excuse she could grasp to stay silent and docile.

****

She had been expecting this moment since dawn, as frantic owls hooted at her window, bearing the same message from her parents and Lucius’ - _Lord Voldemort defeated_. She read them and then screwed up the parchment to throw onto the smouldering fire. Lucius was not to be found in the house, and Narcissa didn’t know if he came home last night at all, where he could be now. She did not feel any panic. She chose a cream coloured dress from her immense wardrobe, handwoven wool that pressed soft against her neck and flowed around her ankles. In sunlight, any light, she would appear golden from head to toe. She bustled about her everyday tasks, ignored the servants’ sidling glances, the worried murmur that continued steady from the depths of the kitchens. She played briefly with Draco, then sat and flipped through his favourite picture book with him. It was about a dragon, his namesake; in it, the miniature Hungarian horntail flapped its tiny red wings and obliterated small towns with a single breath, leaving nothing but little screams that grew shrill before fading away, grey rubble to the last pages. Draco clapped his hands with glee at the end and demanded with gestures that she read it through again. She did, hands clutched around his chubby body as he perched on her lap, rapt.

They came at dusk. She coolly answered the door as they stepped clumsily onto the threshold at the top of the stairs. In their shabby plain robes, they were not threatening to her, and even appeared bashful when they see her cradling a sleeping Draco in her arms, immaculate still. She did not move from the doorway, forcing them to hurry to the point. They informed her that Lucius was currently in the cells at the Ministry building in London, on suspicion of being a Death Eater, causing terror and committing atrocious acts on fellow wizards and innocent Muggles. Her face remained impassive as they recited their litany, and the officer in charge came to a breathless stop. Blushing, he then politely asked her to be cooperative; she inclined her head slightly, which he took to be a ‘yes’ and continued. _Were you aware of these deeds, of your husband’s perfidies?_ he asked then, eyes kind and urging her to tell the truth. Narcissa glanced away instead, a quick look to check on the peaceful baby in her arms. She sensed that the attitude of these men to her softened in that moment, as they were fooled and saw her as perfect mother-wife as she appeared, not the criminal’s accomplice she knew herself to be.

She looked the wizards straight in the eye, and answered, “No.”

END


End file.
